


the process of rewarming

by asweetepilogue



Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Kinda, M/M, Minor Angst, Minor Injuries, Sick Fic, Whumptober 2020, don't at me, geralt is a self sacrificing asshole, possibly inaccurate depictions of how to save someone from hypothermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue/pseuds/asweetepilogue
Summary: Jaskier is finally invited to come stay with Geralt in Kaer Morhen, but they're a bit late to make the journey. And the mountains are treacherous in the winter.Basically, Jaskier has to save Geralt because Geralt was so busy saving Jaskier that he fell in a lake. Oops.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957933
Comments: 19
Kudos: 343





	the process of rewarming

**Author's Note:**

> ahh I've been meaning to write a hypothermia fic for months so I'm glad I finally got the chance! for the prompt hypothermia, #21 in whumptober

Kaedwin was sharply beautiful in the winter. Every surface glinted like polished crystal, the world coated in a fine layer of ice and snow. Blankets of white muffled the countryside, broken by the intimidating bulk of the northern mountains. The thick pine forests were heavy with snow, the trees bowing under the weight of winter in full swing. Above them, the sky was a steel gray that promised more harsh weather to come. 

The path that they walked was narrow and slick, the unforgiving mass of the mountain rising on their left and sloping downwards treacherously on their right. Jaskier paused, his breath puffing out before him as he spared a moment to look out over the countryside. The entire scene was cast in sharp black and white, the snow, trees and mountains beyond forming a stunning but severe monotone. It was bitterly cold, the icy fingers of the northern wind stabbing under each and every gap in his thick winter clothing. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice came from ahead. Jaskier looked away from the view, though the sight he turned to face was no less stunning. The witcher was just as bundled up as Jaskier, his armor traded out for a thick cloak and a padded coat, the rest of his usual gear loaded onto Roach. He looked even larger than usual, the bulky clothes adding extra breadth to his shoulders. His golden eyes glinted in the light reflecting off the snow, though the rest of his face was cast into shadow by the hood he had pulled over his head. Roach snorted beside him, shaking her mane out and tugging at the reins in Geralt’s hands. The path was small enough that Geralt had to walk her, not willing to risk a wrong step. “We need to keep moving,” he said, nodding up the mountain. “If we don’t reach Kaer Morhen by night we’ll be stuck in the snow.”

The clouds above did seem to be growing ever darker. Jaskier nodded, jaw clenched to hide his chattering teeth. Geralt’s eyebrows came together in a frown when he didn’t respond verbally, but Jaskier could do little to assuage his worries.

This was the first time that he’d been invited to travel to Kaer Morhen with Geralt, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by complaining about the cold. If Geralt thought Jaskier couldn’t handle the journey, he’d never let him come along again. So yes, his fingers were nearly numb and his eyes were burning from the wind and his feet were clumsy as he followed Geralt up the path, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. Not if it meant Geralt taking back his invitation in future years. 

So Jaskier hunched his shoulders and continued after the witcher in silence.

They were, Geralt said, no more than an hour or two away from the Kaer Morhen valley, and from there it was an easy walk up to the keep itself. The path that they currently walked was the most difficult part of the journey, made worse by the fact that they’d gotten a late start. Geralt had been finishing up a contract near Oxenfurt, and they’d only barely made it to the pass before it was closed for the winter. The snows had begun falling in earnest a week ago, and by the time they’d made it to the northern mountains they had been well and truly covered in ice and snow. There was nothing for it, however, so they’d started their reluctant way up. They’d been at it for a few days, but this area was clearly the riskiest. Jaskier had seen how Geralt’s mouth had gone thin when they discussed the last leg of the journey, but he hadn’t commented on it. 

They walked in silence for another half an hour or so before the path leveled out, splitting again into two diverging trails. The first led downwards, into what looked like a thin vale. As Jaskier followed Geralt along the other path leading further upwards, he could see that the trail below widened into a small valley. There was a river that ran parallel to their track, and here it widened into something almost large enough to be a lake. The water moved fast enough that it had not completely frozen over, only the edges glinting with sharp ice. It was some twenty feet below them, the mountainside sloping downwards sharply to meet the pool. The frigid waters reflected the light of the low hanging sun, throwing a shifting mosaic onto the cliffside across from them. It was a stunning scene, begging to be captured through pen or song. 

Perhaps it was because he was so taken by the environment that Jaskier stumbled. One moment he was staring out over the small valley, and the next his feet were rapidly sliding out from under him. The patch of ground in front of him that he’d assumed was solid crumbled beneath his heel, snow tumbling away and taking him with it. The thick blanket of snow on the path shifted, moving to fill the space abandoned through Jaskier’s misstep. He found himself slipping, drawn towards the edge of the cliff as if a tide was rushing over him. Jaskier fell, already half over the edge of the cliffside and headed towards the valley below.

Suddenly he was being tugged roughly up and to the side. Geralt’s hands were insistent, grabbing the front of Jaskier’s coat and _pulling_. Jaskier could feel the snow and ice beneath them still slipping, and he met Geralt’s eyes in a panic. If Geralt didn’t move, they would both go over with the crumbling mountainside. 

Geralt’s face was set with determination. With a heave, he pulled Jaskier up and twisted at the same time, shoving Jaskier out of the way even as Geralt tumbled over the side of the cliff.

 _“No!”_ Jaskier launched himself forward, trying to catch something - a sleeve, a hand, anything - but he met empty air. The snow under him shifted, and Jaskier scrambled backwards again to avoid going over the edge. He stared at the blank space where Geralt had been, dread making his breaths come in stuttering gasps. Across the decimated path, Roach snorted, pawing at the ground in agitation. 

Jaskier stumbled to his feet, heart in his throat. It wasn’t so far of a fall, he thought. Geralt could survive a twenty foot drop easily, especially if the snow had cushioned his fall. He was probably fine. Jaskier just had to find a way to get down to him, as quickly as possible. 

Once he’d managed to retrieve Roach, Jaskier swiftly backtracked down the path until he found the spot where the two roads diverged. He urged Roach down along the other trail until it began to widen out, leading into the little valley. The snow here was thick and heavy, having fallen from the nearby cliff sides and collected below. Jaskier had to shove himself through it, feeling the damp powder making its way into his boots. He ignored it, making his way as quickly as he could back towards the lake. Roach followed behind him slowly, her reins gripped tightly in his gloved hand. Geralt would be fine. He had to be. Jaskier just had to find him, and then they could continue to Kaer Morhen and he would have all winter to convince Geralt that this was all just a spot of bad luck. It would be a good argument. Jaskier just needed to find him. 

It took longer than he would have liked to make their way to the side of the pond. Jaskier began to look around frantically, trying to figure out exactly where Geralt had gone over. The upper path loomed above them, seeming higher up from this angle than Jaskier remembered. The snow was disrupted in many places, probably from various animals passing through the valley. Jaskier couldn’t tell where Geralt had come down, he couldn’t see anything but the snow, already covering up his own tracks, let alone any signs of Geralt - 

There was a cough. 

Jaskier sprang into action, abandoning Roach as he rushed toward the sound. There was a small overhang on the west side of the vale, against the wall their path had been on. When he neared, he could see that there was a line drawn through the snow from the side of the lake, as if something had been dragged through it in places. Jaskier felt his heart crawl up into his throat. Until now, he’d refused to think about what would happen if Geralt had fallen in the lake. He ran towards the overhang, following the shallow path through the snow. 

Geralt was slumped under it, in a small clearing where the snow had been unable to fully reach because of the overhang. Jaskier could immediately see that something was wrong as he crashed to Geralt’s side. The witcher’s skin was even paler than usual, his lips tinged blue. His white hair fell in frozen sheets around him, and his wet clothes had already turned icy in places. _He looks dead_ , Jaskier thought suddenly, and it was the worst thought that he’d ever had. Bile pushed up into his throat, but he forced it back, instead cradling Geralt’s face in his hands. His skin was so cold Jaskier could feel it through his gloves. Holding his own breath, he moved his face close to Geralt’s slightly parted lips.

After a long moment, he felt a puff of air against his cheek. Relief hit Jaskier like a punch in the chest, his fingers tingling with it.

Witchers could survive low temperatures better than humans could, he knew, but he also knew that the process of warming them up was troublesome. Their hearts were so slow - a blessing and a curse. It would keep him alive even as his limbs shut down, but it would be harder to get him back to a normal temperature for the same reason. 

Alright. Alright. He had to focus. One step at a time. Geralt’s cloak was in a pile next to him, one edge slightly singed. He must have been trying to light a fire, Jaskier realized, but the cloth had been too saturated. Step one, he thought, forcing himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. Wet, freezing clothes had to come off. Jaskier hated the idea of exposing Geralt’s pale, damp skin to the open air, but he knew that the stiff coat he wore now wouldn’t do him any good. He reached out and started prying the fabric away, one layer at a time.

It was hard work, much of the clothing already coated in thin sheets of ice. Jaskier pulled and tugged and shifted until he finally wrestled Geralt out of his thick, useless coat. The layers underneath were just as soaked, but not yet quite as frozen. Jaskier stripped Geralt down as quickly as he could, leaving him bare. He didn’t even shiver, just lying on the cold ground with his breath barely forming clouds in the cold air. Jaskier hurried to Roach.

They had extra clothes in their saddlebags, cotton shirts and pants and a few blankets. Jaskier grabbed them without looking, arms piled high with material as he fell back to Geralt’s side. He pulled two shirts over Geralt’s head, and then laid down a blanket to protect him from the cold ground and rolled him onto it. The freezing earth would leach heat away from him just as surely as the snow or wet clothes would. Satisfied with Geralt’s position, Jaskier fumbled with his pants and socks until he was at least mostly clothed. 

Step one completed. Step two: shelter. The ledge was something, but they were still exposed to the elements. He didn’t have the time to go hunting for branches to make a lean-to, and there was very little foliage this high up the mountain anyways. They had a wax treated canvas sheet rolled up behind Roach’s saddle, but he had to find some way to mount it if he wanted to keep the snow off of them. 

Roach, bless her, was standing utterly still, clearly aware that something was going on. Jaskier headed back to her, and unclipped Geralt’s swords from their place against her side. They were all he had to work with in terms of any sort of scaffolding, so they would have to do. After grabbing the canvas, Jaskier shuffled through the path of snow back to Geralt. He leaned both swords against the back wall of the cliff, near Geralt’s head, spaced a fair distance apart. The canvas he dragged out and looped over each sword, the heavy weight of them pinning the rough fabric to the wall and holding it several feet above Geralt’s head. The other end of the canvas he dragged out until he reached the snow, half a foot or so away from Geralt’s toes. It was easy work to find a couple of stones to hold the end in place, resulting in a sloped little shelter. 

It would have to do for now. He wanted to make step three a fire, but Jaskier had to admit that he wasn’t great at starting them on the best of days. He never _had_ to; Geralt always just snapped a finger and the kindling was crackling merrily away. They could make one later, when Geralt woke up and was cross about how cold their little tent was. They could always do it later. Grabbing the rest of the blankets from Roach, Jaskier gave her a quick kiss on the nose. He felt bad to leave her saddled and free to wander around, but he had to trust that she would be alright. Geralt needed him.

Decided, Jaskier scrambled inside of the makeshift shelter, careful not to pull too hard at the canvas. Geralt lie on the blanket inside, still absolutely still. Jaskier could see that his chest was rising and falling shallowly, but it didn’t truly assuage his fears. Tugging off a glove, he laid a hand on Geralt’s cheek and nearly winced. The witcher’s skin was freezing, as cold as the snow outside. 

There was nothing for it. Jaskier began tugging off his own clothes, wincing at the frigid air as it assaulted him. Geralt needed body heat to warm up, if they couldn’t have a fire. He left his boots and pants on, but everything else came off. After a moment of consideration he laid the coat and shirt along the seam of the canvas, blocking more of the harsh wind from entering their delicate abode. That done, he shucked off Geralt’s twin layers of shirts as well, now that they were no longer so exposed to the elements. Grabbing the remaining blankets that he’d pulled from Roach, Jaskier covered the both of them fully and laid down next to Geralt in the small, cold space he’d created. 

It was like laying down next to a block of ice, like one of the dazzling sculptures that sat in the square in Novigrad during the yule festivals. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s bare chest, gooseflesh erupting across his skin as it met Geralt’s. He was so cold, Jaskier thought, shivering as he huddled with Geralt beneath the mess of blankets. How could anyone survive being this cold? He felt dead already, his slow heartbeat even slower now as it sluggishly tried to keep his blood pumping. Jaskier tucked himself close, putting his head under Geralt’s chin as his own heart seized in his chest. He didn’t know what he would do if Geralt wasn’t okay - not just how he would get down this fucking mountain, or face Geralt’s family, or, _fuck_ , how he would tell Ciri. He didn’t know what _he_ would do, if Geralt wasn’t there anymore. A crushing void threatened to open in his chest just at the thought of it. 

And it would be his fault besides. All for forcing Geralt to take him on this bloody journey to Kaer Morhen, where he’d never even asked Jaskier to come. Jaskier had asked, begged even, said, _But I want to meet your family_ and _Ciri needs someone who knows how to tell a good story_ and _I miss you, when we’re apart_. And Geralt had caved, eventually, allowing Jaskier to come along where he wasn’t even wanted. Now he was going to freeze to death in the middle of nowhere, because of Jaskier. 

A sob fell from his lips before he could stop it, a few stray tears sliding from his cheeks to land on Geralt’s collarbone. The small space under the blankets was growing, if not warm, then something less than freezing, so hopefully his tears wouldn’t freeze in place. Sniffling, Jaskier gathered Geralt’s hands in his own, still icy to the touch, and pressed them between their bodies. Geralt would be furious if he couldn’t wield a sword anymore because of something as silly as frostbite. 

It felt like they laid there for ages, and Geralt did not wake. Jaskier was anxious to the point of nausea and bored besides, wanting to pace and fret but unwilling to move an inch from his spot by Geralt. The occasional flurry and the cold ground under them ensured that the space never grew truly warm, but Jaskier found his skin becoming sticky with sweat where he was pressed to Geralt. How often had he thought of this, he wondered, on nights when they would share a bed or a bench in the tavern? He’d feel Geralt’s bulk against him through his clothes and his heart rate would pick up, his cheeks flushing as he thought about what it would be like, to feel Geralt skin to skin. To be held by him as a lover. They were silly thoughts. Geralt wasn’t interested, Jaskier knew that. He barely tolerated his presence after all these years. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault Jaskier couldn’t keep his heart to himself. 

After an age, Geralt started to shiver. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief; it meant the worst had passed. 

Jaskier scrambled out of the small tent as soon as he was relatively sure Geralt wouldn’t immediately die without him there. Step four: fire. Before heading up into the mountains, Geralt had filled a burlap sack with some light pieces of wood, explaining that the terrain provided little by way of kindling along the mountain path. Jaskier tugged back on his coat and gloves and retrieved the sack from Roach, who was waiting with an air of impatience outside of their shelter. Jaskier dumped the bag to the side and set about clearing an area to put the fire. The extra snow he piled up around the little area, building a short wall that reached about halfway up to the overhang protecting their little spot. Hopefully it would help shelter them from the wind and keep the fire lit. 

It took him forever to get the flint and tinder to agree with him, even using a clean, dry shirt from his pack as tinder. His fingers were clumsy and numb with the cold, and he was inexperienced with the tools. Eventually a spark flew from the stone in his fingers to the fabric and caught, and Jaskier hurriedly leaned down to blow on it gently. Once the piece was well and truly burning, he pulled a few of the smaller sticks from the bag of kindling and added them until a little fire was casting odd shadowing against the wall of the cliff and Geralt’s unconscious form.

Sitting back with a sigh, Jaskier gave himself a brief moment to warm his fingers before he refocused on Geralt. The warmth of the fire would reach him better without the canvas in the way, and with the pile of snow now blocking more of the outside air, Jaskier felt it was better to expose him somewhat. He moved one of the swords holding up the canvas tent cover until it was open on one side, letting the warmth of the fire into the small space. 

Finally finished, Jaskier stripped his coat back off and huddled under the blankets with Geralt once again. Over the next hour or so, he stirred only to put more kindling on the fire, trying to keep it at a small, steady flame that wouldn’t burn through their supply of wood for too long. They would need it to last them through most of the night. 

He was dozing slightly when he felt Geralt shift beneath him. Instantly he was wide awake, shooting upwards and almost knocking over the canvas. He stared down at Geralt, who was blinking up at him sluggishly. The little tent was almost warm now, the heat of the fire trapped at least partially within the makeshift walls. Geralt moved as if he was going to sit up, but Jaskier put a hand on his chest to still him, the movement agitated. 

“Don’t,” he said, quietly. “You - Are you alright? How do you feel?”

Geralt was still looking at him with a confused expression on his face, like he was trying to piece together exactly where he was and what Jaskier was doing there. “Jaskier,” he said, his voice full of gravel and grit, “what happened?”

Unable to be anything but blunt, Jaskier said, “You fell in a lake. My fault, I’m afraid. Can you feel your toes? I’m terribly worried about them.”

Geralt made a face. “They burn, so yeah,” he said with a grunt. In the small space between their chests, his fingers twitched. Jaskier forced himself not to flush. “Witchers don’t get frostbite,” Geralt continued, still shifting here and there as if to assess the damage.

“How does that track,” Jaskier said faintly. The relief he felt was dizzying; now that he was awake, Geralt seemed to be recovering even faster. His cheeks had a slightly pink tinge to them, and Jaskier could feel that his heart rate was elevated. 

“We heal from it, if we get it,” Geralt replied. “Roach?”

“Just outside,” Jaskier said, unable to stop a fond smile from flitting across his lips. Of course Geralt would be more worried about the horse than his own health. “Very cross at us for making her stand out in the wind, I’m sure.”

“I should take a White Raffords, probably,” Geralt mused, almost to himself. He looked tired; his eyes had that half present quality they sometimes did when he came out of a long meditation session. He met Jaskier’s gaze again, tracing over Jaskier’s face and then down his neck and chest. Jaskier swallowed. “Are you alright?” Geralt asked him, tone subdued. 

Jaskier felt a spike of anger and grief shoot through him, forcing him to inhale sharply. He wanted to box Geralt around the ears a bit, and only refrained because the man was in a delicate state. “Of course _I’m_ alright, Geralt, you self sacrificing piece of horse shit! I’m the one you shoved out of the way and fell into a frozen lake at the bottom of a ravine for!” He fisted one hand in the blankets around them, mortified to find tears pricking at his eyes. He looked away, trying to hide the evidence of his guilt. 

He felt cool fingers suddenly on his jaw, forcing him to turn back towards Geralt. The witcher’s face was soft, eyes hooded with exhaustion and what looked like affection. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “I’d do it again,” Geralt said, tired but full of conviction. 

“I’m not worth it,” Jaskier said, sniffling. Geralt’s palm was warming up on his face, more and more alive with each passing moment. Jaskier wished he could do that all the time - give Geralt more warmth and life and love just through a touch. “Not your life.”

“You are,” Geralt said, with a finality that brokered no argument. His fingers skimmed down from Jaskier’s jaw and over his shoulder, until it stopped to rest against the center of his back. Holding him close. Leaning up, he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, a barely there press. His lips were still a little cold, drawing a shiver from the bard. When he collapsed back, he pulled Jaskier with him, curling around him beneath the blankets. “You are,” he said again, into Jaskier’s hair. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me if I wasn’t prepared to protect you.”

“You didn’t ask,” Jaskier said, blinking against the skin of Geralt’s neck. He was a bit dazed, still feeling the phantom of the kiss like a cool burn. “I did.”

Geralt huffed against him. “I said Ciri missed you,” he said, his fingers spread wide and comforting on Jaskier's back. Tracing around his spine in soothing circles. “I said you’d beat Lambert at gwent, and that Eskel would like that egg thing you make in the mornings, and that you would find a million songs to write about Kaer Morhen in the winter. I thought I was clear enough.” Jaskier felt a puff of warm air against the top of his head, a cold nose in his hair. “Sorry. Will you come to Kaer Morhen with me?”

Jaskier laughed, a sound half choked by tears. “It’s a bit late in the year,” he said, shuffling closer. “A bit of a big thing to spring on a fellow at the last minute.”

Geralt hummed, a sleepy sound that Jaskier knew meant he was dropping off. The little shelter around them was warm, and he knew they would be alright until Geralt woke again. “Next year,” Geralt murmured into his hair, “I’ll ask sooner.”

“And then maybe you won’t fall into a ravine because there’s so much damn snow,” Jaskier said, sighing as he tucked himself deeper into Geralt’s side. Next year. 

“Melitele willing,” Geralt said, and Jaskier felt warm all the way through. 

**Author's Note:**

> if there's any wild inaccuracies about how people need to be taken care of when they get hypothermia just assume it's because of witcher biology. I don't know, yknow? I'm just trying to write h/c it's not always about the specifics 
> 
> follow me at [asweetprologue](asweetprologue.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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